Curtain opens. Lights up. Chicago. The scene opens on the girls
seated at an umbrella-topped table outside the High Noon Saloon. They need
carbs. And mimosas. And more carbs.
After Friday night’s meal and libations, we nursed ourselves
with a Saturday brunch in Wicker Park. (You know, sometimes I think I’m getting
too old for this eating whatever I want, cavorting, martini-ing, sleeping in,
train-hopping, vacation lifestyle. And then I
remember that I’ll be that sassy octogenarian with bright red lipstick who
winks at the little waiter boys someday, so why not raise a glass today…even if
it means a teensy—really the mildest—headache in the morning?) And besides, the
ubiquitous presence of hipsters made it perfectly acceptable for me to wear my
sunglasses while chasing a mimosa with an icy Mexican Coca-Cola. Sweet
nectar.
Sufficiently fed (and aspirin-ed), we spent the next few
hours tramping up and down blocks of boutiques, odd bookstores, resale shops
and hippie food establishments. Good fun. And there was this:
That’s when the evening’s festivities really took off. Back at the hotel, we traded our walking duds
for evening togs, stopped at the bar for a quick tipple and then made our way
to Topo Gigio in historic Old Town for dinner. I have no idea why, but the name
has to do with some sort of Fievel-esque mouse character because he was on every
waitperson’s shirt.
If you dine here, and you should, try everything. It’s all
exquisite. The filet mignon medallions over risotto, the rigatoni, the
farfalle, THE TIRAMISU. All of it will make you want to weep with gastronomical
joy…and punch your skinny-ass Zumba instructor in the face. (She’d be raking
this risotto off her plate, too.) Okay,
okay, enough about the food. It’s fab. If you’re in Chicago, and you’ve got to
eat, go here. That’s it.
Thanks to our trip organizer, the impeccable Dr. T., we
had tickets to the late show at The Second City. For the uninitiated, Second City
is the improv comedy launchpad for greats such as Alan Arkin and John Belushi
to Tina Fey and Steve Carell. All cinematic tastes aside, if you like to laugh,
you need to go see a show. If you don’t like to laugh, well then, you’re doing
it wrong.
To make sure we had floor seats close to the stage, we got
there at 9:30 for the 11:00 show. And before you go rolling your eyes because
you have the patience of a fruit fly, just know that we sat our cute Texas
derrieres in the first and second rows, and two of us got called upon by the actors
during the show. So good, funny things really do come to those who wait.
The show, specifically the 101st revue “Let Them
Eat Chaos,” was two-thirds scripted and two-thirds unscripted, witty, goofy,
smart, even touching scenes—and that was before I had a cocktail. One cast
member described it as “not Applebee’s,” and really, can you get any better
than that?
After three hours of laughing so much I could probably count
it as an ab workout, we giggled our way back to the hotel for 39-and-a-half
winks before catching a 6:30 a.m. flight back to Dallas. It was still dark
during our 4:00 a.m. cab ride to O’Hare, but the late night partiers were out
and about aplenty. By the time Des and I got through security and to our gate,
the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. It reminded me of all those
teenaged slumber parties when we stayed up all night, talking, laughing, and confiding,
just because we could. Until next time, Chicago, old friend.
